I Don't Want You Following Me
by Axcent
Summary: It isn't normal, what Mello's doing; writing his wish in blood, using Matt as the paper, and it's the reason Matt never leaves the Orphanage that haunts him so.


Written for CaffinatedCaffy...

I Don't Want You Following Me

Roger sits alone in his office, hands steepled, face set. His moustache quivers and he clears his throat. Linda sits alone in her room, working feverishly on a drawing, still just a light lined sketch, her hair constantly falling out from behind her ear. The whole of Wammy's is tucked away in their respective places, slumped over their work or drowning in their personal musings. The walls have crumbled, though they still stand strong, still protect the students from a thick rain that taps against windows. The foundation has broken and rotted, even though, from the outside, the House appears steady, an old and beautiful building built in shades of grey, it's sprawling lawns empty, it's windows dark. Inside, children brood, the air is thick with uncertainty. L, the basis on which the orphanage was built, is dead, has been for a while. Though the place was founded solely on the fact that this would someday be the detective's fate, this strange and supernatural future was never planned for. The teachers flee, worried Kira will target them as criminals after they had willingly taught L's succesors, students distance themselves, hiding under their aliases, scared to run underfoot of Roger, who doesn't see the point of Wammy's any longer, who never wanted to be there in the first place, who, like all who still sit under it's roof, still sees the proof that L walked the halls, fears the outside world, doubts, somehow, that Near will be able to defeat such a raging force as is Kira. The whole of Wammy's feels that death is inevitable.

While each child of the House engages in their own past time, continues life in paranoia, watches the Kira case with forced hope in their broken hearts, no one pays any form of attention to anyone else. They see their own palms, lines traced through them, they see their own hair, falling into their faces, they see the television screens, trying to find somewhere that broadcasts information about the Kira case. They see themselves; they see their lives, flickering like a dying flame; they feel the burden of the loss of L; they see their own thoughts, dancing through their own heads. _Where do we go from here? _They wonder, now that there is no one to try and succeed, unless Near meets an untimely death. _But, who, then, will investigate Kira?_ They think, both wishing it could be them and dreading that possibilty at the same time, because Kira beat L, and they don't value themselves above L. Will Mello jump the gun? Will Matt, the number 3, if Mello refuses? But, no one has seen Matt in a long time, and no one has taken the inititative to investigate, letting him slip between their fingers, spotting him at dinner once in a blue moon, seeing him wander, ghost like, down the corriders when they themselves flit into them. There is nothing to do at Wammy's, now that no one wants to concern themselves with the House, now that most are on Kira's side.

But it's Matt, the phantom of a person, the boy with the bruises lining his arms, his legs, his chest, his cheeks; it's Matt who suffers the most. He feels the burden of everything, knows Mello is angry with him, tries to stay in that room number 12, the one they share, with the posters of yesterday sprawling out on the walls, with the one bed decorated in grime, the other empty and bare. Matt supposes Mello sleeps there, but he never sees his blonde. He stands now in the middle of the floor, swinging his arms, wanting to see Mello again, wishing him to be there. And then he is, sitting there on that bed, legs hanging off the edges. His eyes are the same as they were when he said those words, when he told Matt, "_You need to stay here. I don't want you following me." _When he pushed the redhead away.

"Follow you where, Mels?" Matt asks of the Mello sitting across from him, blinking with his blank eyes, the flame that used to flicker amid the emerald put out; the forest drenched of it's fire.

Mello doesn't answer, and Matt feels the water turn on, promising never to let the foliage burn again. He feels it leak, slide over his cheeks, feels his nose burn. He blinks again as Mello is in front of him, a hand wrapped around his pale wrist, nose inches from his. "I don't want you following me." Says Mello, and Matt can feel the burn of his hand, can smell the cocoa of his breath. He pushes with that hand, jerks Matt back from the arm and drops his fingers. Matt stumbles a little, looking up at the blonde, remembering. Mello pushed him the first time he said that, just a little. Every other time, though, he has done much more. Matt shakes his head, and his tears drip into the fabric of his shirt, because he knows what comes next.

Mello steps closer, the clicks of his boots ringing in Matt's ears, somehow distant from the sound of his own sobs, somehow clearer, like thunder claps from miles away, stale and heartbreaking. And outside the rain beats it's drum, and thunder does roll across the earth, in time to those footsteps.

Matt covers his face, whimpering, pushing up the thick red bangs that have grown so much, tucking his nose into the shirt that hasn't left his shoulders in all this time, the one that smells like everything, like sweat and tears and blood, the three things he hasn't been free of in a very long time, the only constants in his life. He can feel the pressence of someone, someone he loves, standing next to him, can hear the breathing in his ears, can smell the fury. He raises an arm to protect himself, crumples to the ground, feels the someone's fists on him, and he cries out again. He asks Mello to stop, to stop hurting him, but the blonde boy doesn't. It's when Matt ceases trying to defend himself, lies still in the darkness, curled up on the hardwood, that Mello backs off. Matt opens his eyes, and Mello is gone, there is no indent on the white mattress where Mello sat moments ago. The room is empty, it's silence sings out and rings in Matt's ears, and he blinks away his tears, even as they rush down faster. The footsteps are still there, hammering against his head, and the flashes of anger are there too, in the form of rods of light tearing open the sky.

Mello never hurt him before. Matt pulls his arms away from around his head, uncurls his body, rolls onto his back in the emptiness, the lonliness. He sobs at the ceiling, wants his Mello back, wishes the blonde's touch would be soft again, can still smell the faint lingering scent of warm chocolate sighs on the air. He sniffs, his nose still itching, his body aching, his eyes sore and red, still overflowing.

Outside, the cotton sky wraps in on itself one more time, flashes it's madness, roars it's last cry, and Matt feels Mello's abscence in the shaky post storm quiet, worse then when the heavens were still growling. He feels it seep into his skin, wants Mello again, even as the bruises ache and blood drips down his chin. As the wind rattles the window, pushes the glass with force Matt never believe dpossible, he pushes himself up, listening to the strange noise of what he percives is weather, his head aching.

The window keeps rattling, tapping maniacally, and Matt ignores it, wishing for Mello. He lets his head fall to the side, turns to gaze upon the raindrops racing their way down the window pane, ends up staring into something bluer than summer skies, framed by something golder than summer suns, ends up looking at Mello again. He lifts himself up, shivers, seeing the way the raindrops, they race down the blonde's cheeks. He wonders why Mello is here, now, after he left just moments ago.

"Matt! Let me in!" The voice is different somehow, fresher, desperate. And it's such a strange thing for Mello to say, something Mello hasn't asked him in a long time. Lately it's been _I don't want you following me, _always _I don't want you following me. _Matt sits in his momentary confusion, staring at the Mello outside. _Mello, you've grown_. He thinks, Mello has grown since their encounter mere minutes ago. _Mello, you've changed you're clothes. _He tilts his head. Mello is dressed very differently, all wrapped in leather, though a gleaming rosary still dangles from around his neck, glinting feebly in the night.

"Matt!" Mello calls again, trying to open the window. Mello can see that something is wrong, that Matt is covered in bruises and cuts, that there are tear tracks down the boy's lightly freckled cheeks. Mello _knows_ something is wrong, seeing the deadness off his redhead's eyes, seeing the way he sits, stiff and shaking. He wasn't expecting this when he decided to come back after so long and collect Matt, had thought the other boy would be sleeping now, possibly; peace in his features, his eyelashes fluttering with dreams. He thought Matt would come running to open the window, would wrap his arms around Mello, would laugh in unconstrained mirth. He had seen the whole reunion, had dreamt of enclosing Matt in his arms, kissing him senseless. He hadn't expected to scale Wammy's wrought iron fence, after never stepping foot near the building in such a long time, and come face to face with a broken shell of a person.

Matt blinks at Mello again, then stands on his unsteady feet and paces across the room, opening the window with swollen hands, still trying to understand this being, this Mello, who crawls in over the sill, eyes telling a story Matt hasn't heard in a long time, hair dripping and sticking to his face, clothes like a second skin over his lean frame. He backs away from Mello, waits for the other boy to clasp his wrist in a vice grip, to push him back and restart the cycle. He stands quiet as Mello approaches him, waits for the eyes to flash back to their old tales, waits for the concern laced voice to turn into a hiss. He stands tense as Mello reaches out a hand, and swallows when that hand reaches out it's fingers and wipes away the steadily flowing tears, it's caress as soft as it used to be, when Mello didn't push.

"Matt, what happened to you?" Mello murmers, slipping that hand behind the boy's head, looping his fingers in the dirty, knotted hair and pulling Matt into his chest. And Matt doesn't know what to do, faced with this strange situation, so he lets this Mello link an arm around his waist, sniffles and catches the scent of chocolate, a whiff of leather, and something very real. This Mello smells different, he notices, smells like Mello shampoo and cheap Mello cologne and the things Matt forgot about, all clinging to the warmth of a body that's touch is soft and kind.

"I like you much better." Matt murmers into the soggy jacket that is Mello's shoulder, and he relaxes because this is the Mello he's been hoping for all this time.


End file.
